


This shadowless night

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [13]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drinking, Halloween, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-20 04:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12424809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky overestimates his alcohol tolerance.  But it's really ok.  There are so many possible ways it could be worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051.

Halloween is boys’ night in. 

 

Steve’d called Clint.  “You know Buck’s not really good with the doorbell, so we’re looking for somewhere quiet to spend Halloween.”

 

“No one hikes up to our house,” Clint’d assured him.  “Laura’s taking the kids into town, so you’re welcome to come crash with me.” 

 

So they’d made plans for drinks and sloppy joes and Svengoolie

 

Steve pulls up in the driveway as Laura’s loading the two miniature pirates into the car. 

 

“Arrrgh!”  Leila growls at them, brandishing her plastic hook. 

 

Bucky looks at Steve for a second and whispers, “Am I supposed to act scared?”

 

“Um.  Yeah,” Steve replies, raising his hands and pulling a girlishly frightened face. 

 

“Ooh.  Scary,” Bucky says flatly, missing the nail on the acting part.

 

“You boys let yourselves in,” Laura says, dusting off her jack-o-lantern sweatshirt before settling behind the wheel.  "Clint’s…a little excited.”

 

Laura’s right.  The kitchen is cluttered, and Clint’s bouncing back and forth between the large collection of condiments on the counter and what looks like a full bar on the breakfast table.

 

“Hey, what can I start you off with?” Clint asks, setting down his down-to-ice-cubes glass and grabbing a couple clean glasses from the cupboard.

 

“I don’t know…” Steve says unsurely.  __Drinks__ has always meant a couple beers on the back porch, or at least it has since Bucky came back.  Not hard liquor.  Alcohol doesn’t do much for Steve these days, and he’s not sure it’s wise for Bucky to imbibe anything stronger than a Miller Lite. 

 

But it’s not like they don’t have a history.  Steve remembers the days when he was barely legal and three sheets to the wind on scotch and soda, watching Bucky try to pick up everyone in the vicinity.  Maybe Bucky remembers too.  Maybe it’ll be ok.

 

“What do you recommend?” Bucky asks, looking at the intimidating number of bottles. 

 

“This one’s always been one of my favorites.”  Clint selects Canadian Club from the array and turns to fridge for ice.

 

“He doesn’t want ice,” Steve says quietly, trying to give a gentle reminder that Bucky’s trigger situation is still…what exactly?  Delicate?

 

“Maybe I do.”  Bucky’s standing close to Steve, looking at him with an expression Steve doesn’t quite recognize. 

 

“Well, I mean…”

 

“I know you’re helping me out.  Just.  Maybe I do.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Steve concedes.  He’s always know it would come to this someday.  And it’s really a good thing if Bucky starts to see him at too protective.  It means he’s getting better.  More independent.  It’s just hard to see things change when he’s not sure of the outcome.

 

“Do you want ice?” Clint asks, looking over his shoulder and flicking his gaze from Steve to Bucky.

 

“No,” Bucky replies, nullifying the argument.

 

Clint splashes whiskey into the glasses, then tops off his ice cubes as well.  Steve takes his serving and inhales the slightly sweet, almost woodsy aroma before taking a small sip.  Bucky’s already tipping his head back and chugging down a gulp.

 

“Someone’s a little eager,” Clint comments, raising his brows.

 

“I think I remember this,” Bucky murmurs after holding the liquor in his mouth for a moment and swallowing it down. 

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you drank everything you could get your hands on back then,” Steve replies, a smile pressing out of the corners of his worried expression.  “I think scotch and soda was your usual, though.”

 

“Do you have that?” Bucky asks Clint, draining his glass of Canadian.

 

“You underestimate my skills as a bartender,” Clint says, rinsing Bucky’s empty glass and setting to work mixing.

 

“You should probably pace yourself,” Steve warns.  “You haven’t had this stuff in a while.  Don’t know how it’s gonna make you feel.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky says.  “Don’t go getting sore about me out drinking you.”  He gives Steve a playful nudge.

 

“Yeah, well.  A lot’s changed since then.  I wouldn’t go thinking everything’s all the same as it was before the war.”

 

“Well.  Gotta try before we find out.”  Bucky accepts his refreshed beverage from Clint and takes a generous sip.  He considers for a moment, then slowly nods.  “Yeah.  I did like this.  I think I still like this.”

 

“Thank you, thank you.”  Clint mock-bows and takes the words as praise for himself.  “I’m a pretty good cook, too, if you’re ready to eat.”

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty hungry,” Steve agrees. 

 

Bucky looks up from another sizeable sip of his drink and nods.  “Sure.”

 

The crock pot is plugged in on the counter, and when Clint lifts the lid, the savory scent of meat and tomato sauce and spices fills the air.  “Mm.  Smells great.  You are a multitalented man,” Steve says.

 

Clint throws buns onto plates, then starts ladling out the filling.  The name sloppy joes ends up being quite accurate as Clint isn’t precise with his plating. 

 

“You know…” Bucky says, an edge of uneasiness in his voice.  He holds his glass against his mouth and clinks it against his teeth.  “I’m…I don’t know if I’m real hungry.”

 

Steve follows Bucky’s gaze to the red-brown sauce dripping from the edge of one plate onto the counter. And practically in the blink of an eye, things are back to being delicate.

 

“I’m sure we could get you something else,” Steve says.  “I bet Mr. Master Chef’s a whiz at grilled cheese too.”

 

“Uh.  Yeah,” Clint agrees, clearly not sure what he’s missing.

 

“I’m good.  I’m just not hungry yet,” Bucky says.  He drains his glass again.  He’s paled slightly, and his eyes are wide and a tad glazed.

 

“Do you need a minute?” Steve asks, offering the out that Bucky clearly requires.

 

“No, I’m.  Um.”  Bucky turns away and sets his glass down on the bottle-laden table.  “How do I mix this?”

 

“I’ll get you set up,” Clint promises.  Then, a bit unsurely, “You ok to eat in the living room?  You’ll have to promise not to tell Laura.”

 

“Yeah, here, I’ll take the plates,” Steve says, jumping into action.  He transfers one of the sandwiches to his own plate so nothing will be left out or wasted.  When he’s back in the kitchen, Bucky’s sipping another scotch and trying hard to hide the tremors in his hand.

 

By the time they’re through the first Svengoolie-commentated film that Clint’s bootlegged from somewhere, Steve and Clint are fed and Bucky’s on his ninth or tenth cocktail.  Steve has to practically bully him into eating a plain hamburger bun, and Bucky keeps insisting he’s fine even though there’s clear evidence to the contrary. 

 

“Think maybe you should slow down a little, Buck?” Steve says, softly patting Bucky’s shoulder.

 

“I’m good,” Bucky says.  “This is fun.  We should do this more often.”

 

“You’re going hard, though.  Might be better to take a little break.  Drink some water.”

 

“We always do what you want,” Bucky grumbles, smacking his glass against his knee so the tablespoon or so of liquid in it slops onto his jeans.  “I wanna…pick what I do.”  He puts his glass on the coffee table and dabs the spill with his fingers.

 

“I’m just trying to keep you safe.  You know that,” Steve reminds him.

 

“Yeah, but…I just…That’s not what I want to do.”

 

“Buck—”

 

“Just shut up a minute, Stevie.”

 

Clint comes back from the kitchen where he’s been washing dishes.  “Do you need me to leave so you can have a fight?”

 

“We’re good,” Steve says.

 

“Top me off,” Bucky demands nodding at his empty drink.

 

“Sure.”  Clint picks up all their glasses and heads off to refill.  Steve launches up to follow him.

 

“You need to cut him off,” Steve says.  “He’s drunk, he’s barely eating, he’s in a bad mood…”

 

“How many has he had?” Clint asks.

 

“I don’t know.  You keep refilling him!”

 

“What?  Oh, fuck, I thought that was your glass, that’s why I kept refilling it.  Shit.  I don’t know either,” Clint admits.  “What was he talking about, making his own choices?”

 

Steve sighs.  “He thinks I’m smothering him.”  He runs his hand agitatedly through his hair.  “I mean, I knew this would come on eventually as he gets more independent, but… turns out he has to be drunk off his ass and making really immature decisions in order to talk to me about it.”

 

“Maybe you should let him.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Let him do something stupid and drink himself sick.  He’s in a safe place here.  He’ll learn and get over it and move on,” Clint suggests.  “You can tell him ‘I told you so’ while you’re carrying him to bed.”

 

“Is that, like, a parenting thing?”  He cringes at the idea of being a father figure to Bucky. 

 

“Eh.  Sorta.  More like a college roommate thing.  Sometimes people have to figure out shit for themselves,” Clint says.

 

“Yeah,” Steve exhales.  “I still think you should cut him off, though.  Give him a glass of water.  Or at least something else, something maybe he won’t like so much.”

 

Clint chuckles.  “You got it.”

 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks when Clint hands him a taller glass of yellow liquid instead of the scotch he’d been expecting.

 

“Pinnacle Whip and pineapple juice,” Clint replies.  “It’s kind of more Laura’s thing, but like I said, I’m a good bar tender.”

 

Bucky gamely takes a taste.  He shrugs and sips it again.  “Kind of sweet.”

 

“You don’t like sweet so much, huh?” Steve poses.

 

“It’s ok.  Way better than that pumpkin coffee whatever thing you had that one time…”

 

“Wait, you drink pumpkin spice lattes?” Clint asks, bursting out laughing.

 

“What?  They’re good!” Steve says in his own defense.

 

Clint starts another episode of Svengoolie, but they only watch a few minutes before all three of them are laughing raucously at something and Bucky shouts that they should probably play cards.

 

“That’s what we do, right?” He asks Steve, a little slur tainting his pronunciation.  “Play cards?”

 

“Um.  We did.  I think.  Before the war?  When we’d go drinking?”  Steve strains to remember.

 

“No, when I can’t sleep.”

 

“Oh.  Yeah, we play cards sometimes.  Uno and stuff.”  He tries to lock on Bucky’s blurry gaze.  “You getting tired?”

 

“Maybe.  I don’t know.  It feels late.”

 

“It’s 8:30,” Clint says with his own version of buzzed sarcasm.  “So late.”

 

They dig up a pack of cards.  It takes a while to come up with a game they all know how to play, and finally they just start up with 3-way war, even though Steve thinks it’s a bad idea from the name alone. 

 

Bucky drains his glass for what seems like the hundredth time tonight, then knocks it over as he sweeps a pile of cards toward himself.  The glass doesn’t break, but Bucky jumps when it hits the table and whispers, “Shit.”

 

“You’re ok,” Steve says, righting the cup and clapping Bucky on the stump shoulder.  Maybe a little harder than he meant to.

 

“No, I’m not,” Bucky murmurs unexpectedly.  “I was…I’m…I don’t…”  He hiccups.  Then spills all his cards into his lap.  “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint says.  “It’s really easy to clean cards out of the carpet.”

 

Bucky belches wetly in response, swallows hard, and brings his fist up to his mouth. 

 

“Barf, though…”  Clint cocks his head.  “Not so much.”

 

“Ok.  Come on.”  Steve heaves Bucky up from the couch and steers him toward the bathroom.  Bucky gags into his hand before they’re over the threshold, then leaves a brownish spitty handprint on the toilet seat when Steve guides him down to his knees.

 

Bucky retches hard.  “I don’t feel good, Stevie,” he chokes.

 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “Looks like maybe your tolerance isn’t so high after all.”

 

A huge slew of liquid splashes into the toilet, and Bucky coughs and groans as his system rejects everything he drank.

 

The wave of vomit finally lets up, and Bucky turns his head to the side to rest his cheek on the toilet seat. His eyes are red, and spit’s stuck to the stubble on his upper lip.  He looks 18 and naïve. 

 

It brings Steve back to being young and invincible, though more often than not he was the one with his head in the toilet back then.  Even though he’s so much older now, things aren’t that much different.  Not really.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes. 

 

“It’s ok, Buck,” Steve says.  He pats him on the back, then tries to relieve some of the tension in Bucky’s quivering shoulders.  “You’re really doing ok.  I mean, of all the things that could’ve brought you down tonight, it’s the liquor.”  Steve laughs in spite of himself.

 

“’S not that funny,” Bucky grumbles, repositioning himself over the toilet to prepare for the next wave of sickness.  He throws up for a while more, then just stays there, bent over the porcelain bowl as Steve rubs his back. 

 

There’s a scuffling of doors opening and closing, then footsteps dashing through the house, which can only mean that Laura and the kids are home.  Steve’s barely thought through what to do next when knuckles softly rap on the door frame. 

 

“You doing ok?”  Laura’s standing there in her festive sweatshirt, looking concerned at the scene playing out in her bathroom.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure Clint told you,” Steve says quietly.  “Just.  Had a little too much.”

 

“I’ll put some sheets on the guest bed for you,” Laura offers.  “There are some spare toothbrushes under the sink.”

 

“No, we’ll get out of here,” Steve says.  Bucky starts retching again.  “Just, give us a few more minutes.”

 

“You’re staying here,” Laura says with gentle matriarchal authority.  “I don’t know how much you’ve had to drink.  And he really needs somewhere to sleep it off.”

 

Steve sighs.  She has a point.  “I’m just…really sorry to be…you know.  Those kind of guests.”

 

“You guys are never bad guests,” Laura smiles.  “Is there something he’ll want to eat in the morning?  Just so I can have it on hand.  I’m sure the kids are going to insist on candy for breakfast…”

 

“Anything but that,” Bucky mutters into the toilet bowl. 

 

Steve laughs, relieved that of all the possibilities, this is how he’s gotten to spend Halloween.


	2. Morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. Thank you, Royal_Ermine. This one's for you.

Steve wakes to an unfamiliar room streaked with morning light.  He shifts onto his hip and sits up, letting his legs slide through the empty sheets on the other side of the bed.  The events of last night come rushing back up to meet him, and Steve struggles into yesterday’s jeans before slipping down the hall.

 

As expected, Bucky’s in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet.  He’s mid dry heave when Steve steps through the doorway, muttering, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and spitting out mucous.

 

“Hey,” Steve whispers.  “Still not feeling good?”

 

“Yeah…”  Bucky gags hard, his body jerking forward around a tremendous empty belch that brings up nothing for the effort.  “S-sorry.”

 

Steve ignores the apology and squats at Bucky’s shoulder, running his hand down Bucky’s bare and sweat-damp back.  “How long you been up?”

 

“Don’t know.  Was still dark…”  Bucky swallows convulsively.  The clock is just now turning 7:30, so Steve credits him an hour.  Certainly no less than 45 minutes.  Which is still impossibly too long to spend doing…this.

 

“You should’ve woken me up,” Steve says.  “No one should have to do this alone.”

 

“Maybe I, uh, didn’t want you to see me,” Bucky groans, too deep in the toilet bowl to make eye contact.  “Pay for my sins…”

 

“What, you turning religious on me?” Steve asks with a smile to mask his pitying expression.

 

“Naw,” Bucky says, coughing.  He surfaces and turns his head to look at Steve.  His eyes and nose are streaming, sending drips of snot and saltwater down his paper-white face.  “Turning stupid.”

 

“You’re not stupid,” Steve says.  “I mean, this definitely wasn’t one of your better ideas, but it’s ok.  This kind of stuff happens to everyone once in a while.”

 

“Not to you,” Bucky exhales.  His skin goes a shade of grey, and he starts to heave up nothing again.

 

“Hey, alright,” Steve intones, patting Bucky’s back.  “Breathe through it.”

 

Bucky hacks.  “Sorry, Stevie.”

 

“It’s not about me.  Or you listening to me,” Steve says.  “I think the lesson here is…you can get through stuff.  We can talk about stuff.  And you’re doing fine.”

 

“I don’t feel fine.”

 

“Yeah, I guess not,” Steve says, smiling in spite of himself again.  “But you’re sick ‘cause you’re hungover, not because you’re having a panic attack or something.  That…kinda feels like progress.”

 

“I guess,” Bucky whispers.  “Fucking messed up, though.  I’m never doing this again…”  He does a decent job suppressing the next gag, but squints and furrows his brow against the obvious dehydration headache.

 

“Yeah, good,” Steve murmurs.  “What do you say we get you some breakfast?”

 

“Ugh.  Not hungry,” Bucky groans.

 

“That’s why you feel so sick, though.  ‘Cause you’re starving.”

 

“Fuck.  I know.”  Bucky shoves himself back onto his heels and pushes his lank hair back out of his face.

 

“Ok.”  Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple and gets to his feet.  “Put some clothes on.  I’ll see what I can get going for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Bucky sighs.  “That…didn’t really sound right.  I mean it.  Thanks.”

 

“I know you do.” 

 

In the kitchen, Clint’s making coffee while Laura fries eggs, and the kids are at the kitchen table sorting M&Ms by color. 

 

“Morning, superdope,” Clint says.  “Hate to break it to you, but we’re all out of pumpkin spice.”  He pours Steve a cup of black coffee.

 

“No, this is good.  This is better,” Steve says.

 

“How’s Bucky doing?” Laura asks.

 

“He’s, uh…still feeling pretty rough,” Steve replies, wondering how appropriate it’ll be to bring his hungover lover out to crash family breakfast.

 

“I’ll put on some toast,” Laura says.  “Will he go for that?”

 

“I think so,” Steve answers.  “We’re both pretty out of practice with this.”

 

“Well, lucky for you, I’m a dad __and__ a party animal,” Clint brags.  He sets a place at the table with a cup of coffee and a bottle of orange Gatorade.

 

Steve sits down with the kids and munches through the brown M&Ms Leila and Cooper have generously shared.  It seems to be taking Bucky an absurd amount of time to get moving, and Steve’s on the point of going to check on him when he finally appears, his jeans sagging on his hips and his wrinkled flannel shirt unbuttoned over his sweat-stained white undershirt.

 

“Hey, here you go.”  Clint finishes pouring his own coffee and points Bucky to the seat between Steve and Cooper.  “I didn’t know if you were starving more for caffeine or electrolytes, so I got you set up with both.  Laura’s working on your protein.”  He nods at his wife, who waves back with her spatula.  “And the kids are doing a number on the sugar.”

 

“Hm.  Ok,” Bucky grunts, still looking like he’s fighting down nausea. 

 

“Or, you know what?” Clint starts with an aura of mock wisdom.  “November first is the magical day where Starbucks puts away the PSL and brings out the peppermint mocha…I could always run down and grab you one of those.”

 

“I don’t know what that is,” Bucky croaks.  “But it sounds terrible.”  He wraps his hand around his hot coffee mug and hunches down so his chin practically rests on the table.

 

Steve claps him on the shoulder.  “Yeah, you’ll probably want to leave that one alone.  At least till you’re feeling better.”

 


End file.
